#lay on a black cushion in direct sunlight that is hot to the touch warm

[adaine-party-wizard]

i have figured out how to make my reactive asshole dog be really well behaved on walks: make it too hot for her to be angry

(bonus pics of happy dog)

[1997devil]

heaven

paring: seungcheol x fem reader

w.c.: 1.3k

includes: oral (fem receiving), morning sex, mentions of alcohol

–

your head starts to pound when your eyes face the early morning sunlight. something heavy circles around your waist.

it feels like your joints have been locked into place as you try to get up from under the covers. you keep your groan in as you rub the sleep and the ache from your eyes, and seungcheol’s arm falls to the bed with a cushioned thud due to your departure from his hold.

you manage to trudge into the bathroom and nearly knock the cup holding your toothbrush over, though your reflexes– quick for a hungover morning like this one– catches it before it clatters against the sink, which would definitely have gotten seungcheol up.

when you return to the bedroom seungcheol has one arm bent, palm sandwiched between his head and the pillow he lays on. he still has his eyes closed, still has his arm on your side of the bed. you accidentally stumble on his house slippers and you groan at the pain that shoots through your toes to your calves. you settle back on the bed with a loud grunt, hand slamming on the nightstand in an attempt to find your phone.

“we are never going drinking on a weekday ever again,” you grumble, eventually finding the little device drowning amidst your covers. you actually woke up around the same time as you would before you have to leave for work, years of routine settling into your muscles. seungcheol seems glued to the mattress, only rolling over for his arm to return to its position around your bare tummy, chasing for the warmth you provide. he presses light kisses to your hips, the line of your body, spelling out good morning before settling behind you.

“you didn’t seem to share the same sentiment last night,” he retorts, fingers leaving light trails on your body. he knows you need to get up again to get ready for work, but on days like this, he knows you won’t be able to resist the warm beckoning of your bed and his touch.

when you attempt to push yourself off of the mattress to get to your closet seungcheol lets out a whine, tightening his hold around your waist, acting as a seatbelt. you sigh, already knowing what seungcheol is planning to do, and you’re already close to caving. you’d much rather stay home than face your job, leaning much more towards the idea of staying in bed and nursing this bitch of a hangover. you’ll have to complain at soonyoung for shoving you too many tequila shots last night.

“cheol,” you try to speak, interrupted by seungcheol’s little nips on your shoulder, now having fully risen to a sitting position. his bare chest cushions your back, and you shudder at the burning feeling that envelops your whole body of your skin pressed against his. “i need to go to work.”

“mmm,” he hums, obviously intending on doing the opposite of what you’re asking him. “the company won’t die just because you ditch one day,” he whispers right into your ear, his breath warm and tickling

“yes, but i will under the hands of my boss if i do,” your hands travel to behind you, weaving your fingers into seungcheol’s black tresses, pressing him closer to you as he continues his ministrations along your jaw and neck.

“she’ll have to get over my dead body,” he takes the final blow, moving backwards so he can turn you around, letting you lay on the mattress again. he moves up to kiss the corner of your mouth, hands pushing you down, not that you’re showing any resistance. you quickly melt against his kisses, letting out the soft moans that drive seungcheol crazy. you can’t let out any more excuses, not that seungcheol’s allowing you to with the way he has your lips locked with his, tongues knotting with each other.

his fingers travel to the waistband of your underwear, his lips now making their way to your breasts, biting and tugging on your nipples, before he settles right above your clothed clit after skimming through your tummy and hips. if your muscles felt like swimming in molasses earlier then it’s all melted off into soft waves, the way seungcheol’s touch has always made you feel.

seungcheol tugs off your underwear that are already soiled from how worked up you are. he takes his fingertips, languidly dragging them on your sensitive skin, collecting the wetness that’s amassed on your sex, gushing to the inner parts of your thighs as well. he slowly pushes one digit in, lips stretching into a satisfied smirk as you let out a gasp and a whine at the feeling.

he slowly pumps before he adds another finger. his lips ghost over your clit, tongue skittish as he gives kitten licks to your pussy. the added instrument works in tandem with his digits towards your ultimate demise, and you can only surrender to the feeling.

you don’t seem like you’ll last long, head already slowly thrashing to the side, hips rising from the mattress as you chase after his fingers. all it takes is a choppy, “pl-please–ah!– s-seungcheol,” dropping from your lips before he retracts. he slips his cock from his briefs, cursing under his breath at the contact when his palm wraps around his length.

you push yourself up, on your elbows, as you watch seungcheol prepare himself. he fleetingly remembers to grab a condom, rummaging around in the nightstand drawer, fingers hurriedly tearing open one of the foil packages, wrapping himself up. then he inches closer to you before he pushes in in one quick thrust.

he manages a few more pumps before you give in to the feeling and lay back down on the bed, hair splayed out against the pillows. seungcheol thinks you’re always beautiful, but he can’t and won’t ever get enough of how angelic you look especially right now, chest bouncing as he slowly pounds into you, mouth open and letting out moans, soft from your unused throat in the mornings.

it’s great, but it’s not enough. he quickly slips out, relishing in the whine you let out when you feel empty again, but he grabs you by the waist and turns you around, lifting you by your hips and bending you by your knees. as he reenters you, it doesn’t take him long until he pushes against your sweet spot, the new position allowing him more control and rule to take you to the heavens.

you and seungcheol act out the juxtaposition to the otherwise innocent morning as the room fills with the sounds of your unabashed moans and skin slapping. your fingers grip and tug on the bedsheets, while his travels up to your hair, tugging you up so that your back is to his chest. his groans that spill into your ears spur you on even more than you can think of, and before you know it you’re coming hot and hard, your walls clamping down on his cock as he keeps thrusting, dragging your orgasm out. his soft calls of your name exchanging with pleads and “baby”s accompany his orgasm.

“fuck,” seungcheol mutters as he finally pulls out. he pulls the rubber off of his cock, tying it up before he gets off of the bed, padding over to the bathroom to throw it out and grab a little towel to clean you up. you’re already standing in front of him when he turns around, your eyes glinting at him, as you bite on your lip. your jaw nudges in the direction of the shower box as you mutter, “wanna clean me off in there?”

just how is he supposed to say no?

[ravenbrenna09]

Jij Verliest - Chapter Seven: Clip 1&2

master list

...

Zaterdag 4:27

Robbe was hot. 

The realization pulled him from his dreams, bringing him into reality in his bedroom, with only one thing running through his half-asleep brain: hot. Below the surface of his skin, he could feel the wildfire bubbling and increasing with intensity. Robbe reached out, feeling the pressure of one hand against his other arm. Even still waking up, fighting off the initial wave of grogginess, he could feel the flush of his skin, the sweat forming on it. 

In addition to the burning of his skin, there was a heavy pressure against Robbe’s back. It was solid, heavy, and overbearingly warm. There was a similar, but lighter, pressure along his waist. The two added to the intensity of his body heat, increasing it so much that he couldn’t fall back asleep. While Robbe’s sleep-induced mind was certain of “why,” his heart swelled tenfold with ease and certainty. 

Seeking the sweet reprieve of cooler air, Robbe shifted away from the warm pressure. Cold air swept over his shoulders and back, giving him the relief that he needed. But, behind him, he heard a small whine and the bed shifted beneath him. As quickly as it had vanished, the warmth returned, pressing against his back and waist, and Robbe realized with a start that he was being pulled back across the bed. 

For the first time since waking up, Robbe opened his eyes.

As Robbe tried to get his bearings, he glanced around the bedroom in confusion. There were only two sources of light in the room. The lamp on his desk, which he had forgotten to turn off and the bright red numbers on the alarm clock—4:27. It was still a little too early for the sun to rise and Robbe could still see the stars beginning to dim. 

But, even with the minimal lighting, he could make out the clothes scattered across the floor. Robbe’s deep green shirt was on the floor, cast aside, and there was a black one near the window, balled up.  There was a pair of deep blue skinny jeans on the floor, partially covering one Doc Marten. He found the other shoe cast aside near the edge of the bed, with Robbe’s jeans pooling beside them.

Just like that, Robbe’s sleepy mind snapped to attention and all hints of drowsiness were wiped from his brain. Once the sleep had disappeared, his mind started to remember everything from last night in slow motion. Sander showing up at the apartment and kissing him as though his life depended on it. Robbe pulling off Sander’s shirt, Sander doing the same, falling on the bed—and it all led to them collapsing on the sheets and Sander falling asleep before Robbe did. 

Sander.

Needing to see Sander with his own eyes, Robbe slowly twisted onto his back. Unlike Robbe, Sander was still sleeping. His cheek was squished against the pillow and his bleach-blond hair was sticking in all directions, only partially because of Robbe’s hands. The sheets were bunched up around his waist, and his right arm, covered with all of his tattoos, was draped over his waist.

Turning toward him fully, Robbe stared. 

In the few times that they had fallen asleep in the same bed, Robbe had always been the first one to fall asleep and the second one to wake up. So he had never been allowed to see Sander like this, relaxed and peaceful. Sleeping, Sander was stripped of what he showed the world and left with only him. He looked vulnerable and exposed, but still so beautiful and Sander. Robbe’s eyes found the tattoo on his shoulder—a large wolf that covered his upper arm and his shoulder, protective and menacing—and the words of ink on his ribcage that were partially covered by his arm.

Robbe lost track of how long he stared at him, his finger tracing along the outline of the wolf’s face. He saw the way Sander’s nose scrunched in his sleep and how he pressed his cheek further against the pillow. He saw how Sander’s mouth fell open a little before closing and how he clung unconsciously to Robbe’s waist in his sleep. Unaware of Robbe’s eyes lingering on him, Sander continued to sleep soundly and Robbe continued to watch him. 

Then, all at once, Robbe’s body reminded him why he was awake in the first place. A hot flash shot through his body, making the comforting warmth of Sander’s skin against his own nearly unbearable. Robbe wanted to get out of bed, check the thermostat in the hall, and get a glass of ice-cold water. He needed something, anything, to cool down just a little, to get him relaxed enough to go back to sleep. 

At the same time, he didn’t want to leave Sander’s side. If he left, Robbe was worried that he would return to an empty bed and find that Sander was simply a product of his imagination—a comfort he had conjured to deal with the fact Sander never texted him. It was illogical, but Robbe knew how powerful the brain could be on occasions and how strong his anxiety could be. 

The mere thought of ice-cold water to cool his burning skin was too tempting to pass up. 

Shifting slowly, Robbe edged himself out from Sander’s arm. First, he slipped one leg out from under the cover before swinging the second one out. Sander’s arm slipped from Robbe’s waist, falling lightly onto the cushions beneath it. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Robbe grabbed his briefs and slipped them on. Just in case Jonathan or Milan were still up, he grabbed a t-shirt for good measure. 

As Robbe smoothed the fabric over his waist, he felt a featherlight touch on his wrist. The touch was so soft that he almost thought he imagined it until there was a gentle squeeze on his skin. Glancing down, he spotted a hand—Sander’s hand—holding lightly to his wrist and he pivoted to find Sander looking up at him. 

Though he was awake, Robbe could still see the drowsiness in Sander’s eyes as he blinked sleepily up at Robbe. Despite sleeping for so long, there were large bags under his eyes. Sitting up on one arm, Sander looked on the verge of falling back asleep, the exhaustion present on his face. Before Robbe could ask him if he wanted anything from the kitchen, Sander swallowed before whispering, “Are you going to leave me?”

The softness in his voice—and the insecurity laced in his question—caught Robbe off guard. Since the moment they had met at the bar, Sander had been nothing but confident. He sat down beside a stranger to comfort him. He boldly stared at Robbe from across the bar because he could and asked him out on a date because he could. He told Robbe that he was beautiful on their first outing and took it a step forward and kissed Robbe later that week. Everything Sander had ever done was confident. It had never crossed his mind that Sander could be as insecure as Robbe was. 

Shaking his head, Robbe bent down. “Never,” he whispered. Sander let out a hum, his eyelids seemingly heavy. “I got hot so I was going to get some water from the kitchen. Did you want some?” 

Sander was silent for a moment before shaking his head. Before he climbed off the bed, Robbe bent down to press a kiss to his eyelids. Sander let out another small hum before tilting his head up and their lips connected. This kiss was chaste, so different from their heated kisses hours ago, but Robbe always loved these kinds of kisses just as much. 

“I’ll be back in a second,” Robbe whispered. 

“Hurry back,” Sander whispered, silently pleading.

When Robbe returned, a glass of ice-water in his hands, Sander had laid back down in the bed. He was dressed in his black t-shirt (and likely his briefs), but he’d returned to the same position as before. Once Robbe climbed into the bed, Sander snuggled into his side, laying his head on his chest, and wrapped his arms around Robbe’s waist. Within moments, Sander fell asleep again as Robbe dragged his fingers through his messy hair. 

Letting out a sigh and holding Sander tighter, Robbe succumbed to the blissful comfort of sleep with Sander wrapped his arms. 

…

Zaterdag 10:23

When Robbe woke up again, the sun had risen over the buildings across the street. The sunlight stretched across the bedroom, lighting a direct path to the bed. The warm light swam over their remaining discarded clothes across the floor. It also reached the lower half of the bed, warming the sheets twisted around their intertwined legs. 

Sometime in the night, he and Sander had shifted again. 

Sander was flat on his back with his right arm covering his eyes. His left arm was trapped between the bed and Robbe’s stomach. Robbe was tucked into his neck with one arm draped across Sander’s chest, holding him tightly. There was a fistful of Sander’s black t-shirt in his hand. Sander’s nose was pressed flush against his temple and his sleepy breaths caressed Robbe’s cheekbone. 

As Robbe sat up, gathering his bearings, he could hear the sound of clattering in the kitchen—Jonathan’s voice and Milan’s high-pitched squeals, which meant he was being tickled—and the smell of eggs and sausage in the air. Oh right, Robbe thought. Jonathan was supposed to be cooking breakfast. At the mere mention of Jonathan’s delectable cooking, Robbe’s mouth began to water and his stomach let out a growl. The thought of Jonathan’s cooking, especially his omelets, was enough to increase the intensity in which he drooled.

When was the last time that Robbe had eaten? Glancing over at Sander, who was still asleep, Robbe had to wonder when Sander last ate. Was it his “lunch” break, which was probably dinner? Did he get some food on his way here? Or did he come straight to the flatshare? 

Biting down on his lip, Robbe made his decision. 

Carefully, he lifted himself off of Sander’s chest. As Robbe rose from the bed, Sander moved beneath him, stretching his limbs. Robbe paused where he was, waiting for the arm against his face to move, to see Sander’s green eyes blinking up at him, but it never happened. Sander turned over so his back faced the approaching sun and wrapped his other arm around himself, letting out a muffled whine. Unable to resist, Robbe placed a kiss against Sander’s clothed shoulder before climbing out of bed. 

Once Robbe stepped into the hallway, closing his bedroom door softly so he wouldn’t disturb the sleeping Sander, Milan’s voice got louder. He was giggling and Robbe could hear Jonathan’s deep bass laugh mixed in. As he stepped closer into the kitchen, he found Jonathan trying to feed Milan a spoonful of something and Milan struggling to get away from him. 

“No, no, Jonathan, I’ll eat anything that you cook and think it’s amazing. I’m hardly the person to tell you whether you need more spices,” Milan said, trying to back away. Despite this, he was grinning from ear-to-ear and was leaning back on the back two feet of his chair, nearly toppling onto the kitchen floor.

“Yes, I would ask Zoë about her tastebuds because she’s got the best ones of all of you,” Jonathan said, matter-of-factly. Robbe grinned as he watched the two of them bicker. Despite being the shorter of the two, Jonathan managed to tower menacingly over the sitting Milan, who looked on the edge of tipping over. “But she’s out of the apartment and I need a second opinion.”

“What’s going on here?” Robbe asked.

The two men in the kitchen turned to him. Now that Jonathan wasn’t on the offensive, Milan settled back into his chair, no longer teetering on the edge of falling. As Jonathan turned toward him, Milan called, “Robbe, run for your life or you’re next!”

Jonathan rolled his eyes at his boyfriend’s antics. “Please, Robbe’s tastebuds might be better than yours. But even if it was the single worst thing he ever tasted, Robbe would tell me that it was amazing.” Milan made a face—one that meant he agreed—and Robbe couldn’t refute his statement because it was true. Jonathan returned to the food on the stove and turned to Robbe. “How was your night?” 

Under Jonathan and Milan’s knowing gaze, Robbe felt his cheeks flush in intensity. “Umm… it was good,” he said, swallowing. “How was the party? Did Vincent murder you for being extremely late?”

Milan wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “No, he was incredibly understanding,” Milan said, patting the empty chair next to him. “You’re not getting out of this one, baby bird. I can see all the hickeys forming on your neck from here. Come on, sit down, and tell Milan all about it. And don’t skimp on any of the details because you look like you had a fun night.” Robbe rolled his eyes, leaning against the door frame. “At least tell me why he got cold all of a sudden.”

Robbe swallowed. “We haven’t talked about it yet,” he said. 

“Robbe—”

“I know, Milan,” Robbe said before Milan could say another word. “And I’m going to ask him about it. I just… when I saw he was here and that he was choosing to be with me. I got overwhelmed and we started kissing. Before I could think of asking, we were…” Robbe cut himself off with a cough, feeling his cheeks heat up. “After… he just looked so exhausted and he fell asleep—and he still is.”

“Well,” Milan said, straightening up. “Wake him up and we’ll get answers.”

“No,” Robbe said, shaking his head. Still at the stove, Jonathan started piling food onto one of their plates and Milan raised an eyebrow toward Robbe. “No, no, I’m not letting you interrogate him before I get a chance to ask him. If you want to play my overprotective dad or overprotective rich uncle—whichever you decide—you can do so at dinner.”

“Is he joining us for dinner?” Jonathan asked. 

“I hope so,” Robbe admitted. Jonathan turned toward him, handing him the plate. There were at least two helpings of everything on the plate and Robbe stared at the plate with wide eyes. Jonathan moved across the kitchen in search of a fork. “After being apart from him all week, I want him to. But I don’t know about his work and everything. He could have a shift at the parlor or something.” 

“Let me know,” Jonathan said, handing him two forks. “Go on—and make sure he tries the potatoes.”

Before Robbe stepped out of the kitchen, Milan called his name. Robbe paused halfway out the door, clutching onto the plate for dear life. “Don’t think you’re getting away from this conversation,” Milan said sternly. For a second, he thought that Milan was talking about the conversation with Sander—about why he pulled away so suddenly—but then his self-appointed guru wiggled his eyebrows and Robbe knew that he was talking about the sex. 

“Goodbye Milan.”

“I’m just trying to keep you safe!” 

...

Note: While my plan was to normally post Saturday and Sunday’s clips, I decided to only upload the first two clips of Saturday. The next clip is the conversation between Robbe and Sander and I wanted to post it with edits. I promise that it’ll come tomorrow and later on I will post an update with a schedule for this week.

Also sorry for updating late. I literally just got home and into wifi and we’ve still got to unpack and my mom’s looking at me like “COME ON AND HELP.” 

[angst-for-the-angst-queen]

Marvin’s Birthday Prompts #1

Jacksepticeye Egos Fanfic

Originally posted on Wattpad on August 15th, 2020.

I asked people in the ego panic room of Seán's Discord server for prompts about Marvin for his birthday. I'm almost a week late, but I finished the first one. Happy late birthday Marvin!!

Warning(s): None.

It was a beautiful day in Brighton. The sun was shining brightly, its beams warming the ground. It was neither too hot nor too cold, and a fresh summer breeze drifted through the air.

The zephyr whispered its way through the city, eventually reaching a villa whose design was a fusion of modern and Art Deco overlooking Brighton Marina. It was a four story white home with a pool and a garden. The home was surrounded by a white wall and a wood paneled sliding gate. The front doors appeared to be made out of mahogany wood and the arch over the doorway made out of glass and black iron.

The garden was filled to the brim with plants. A lush carpet of grass covered the ground. Lilies of the valley, delphiniums, peonies, and primroses were scattered all over the place, with wisteria draped across the fence. Golden shield ferns surrounded a small koi fish pond, the fish inside swimming to their heart’s content. A hammock was stretched between two silver birch trees, their branches dusting the sky. A plush swing bathed in sunlight gently swayed back and forth.

On one of the cushions of said swing lay a fluffy, white cat, its eyes closed. It looked like a typical Norwegian Forest cat, except for the red and black card suit markings on its forehead. The sun warmed its fur, while the wind ruffled it gently.

“Marvin!” a voice called throughout the garden, carried by the air currents. The cat’s eyes opened, revealing slitted, ocean blue eyes, before closing once more. The voice continued to call, getting louder as it came closer, until it was right next to the cat.

“There you are! Are you enjoying the sun?”

The cat’s eyes opened again, revealing a red sweatshirt-wearing, green-haired human peering down at him. He responded with an indignant merow, because how dare the human disturb his slumber and block his sunbeam?!

“Sorry,” the human said, stepping a little bit back, just enough to let the sunbeam hit the cat. “I just came to let you know that I made cat food, if you want any.” Red Hoodie turned to go, carefully making his way through the garden back towards the house.

The cat considered it, his tail flicking. The meal the human offered wasn’t actual cat food, just a human interpretation of it. Rice, tuna fish, garlic salt, and olive oil all mixed together to make something surprisingly delicious.

Making up his mind, the cat stood up, laying his front legs down and arching his back up in a stretch. He then leaped down from the swing and began walking his way back to the house.

As he walked, his body began to change. The tail began shrinking, while everything else began growing. The ears shifted from the top of his head to the side, becoming rounder. The muzzle shortened, leading to a flatter face. The claws withdrew, becoming more flat than circular. The toes began separating from each other and elongating, with the front two feet becoming more hand-like. The legs also stretched out, with the forelimbs shifting into arms. The back lengthened and changed direction, switching from being parallel with the ground to being perpendicular to it. The fur retreated into his body in certain areas, but changed its texture in others.

The last final touches occurred, leaving a human male who looked similar to Red Hoodie in the cat’s place. Marvin straightened his clothes, took his cat mask off in order to shake his green hair out, replaced it, then continued his way towards the house, a small smile on his face as he thought about his brothers already eating lunch inside.

[vampbait-a]

|| Cemetery Roses || ch. 6

|| co-written with @cynaram    Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

The rain pelted down at a drizzle, deadening the sounds of the surrounding cemetery. In the darkness, the cleared path through the roses was the only safe means of exit.

There was just the warning crunch of a shoe on gravel behind the necromancer before the crash of a shovel at his back, narrowly missing his head.

Cabal’s knees went weak at the blow.  He hadn’t even looked around upon leaving the chapel; idiot, did he think his enemies took holidays if he was upset?  He staggered to face his assailant, his hand already going to the only weapon he could reach: his flick knife.

"T'ain't bloody well gettin' 'way wit' it no-longer!" growled a burly, very angry man* in greenkeeper’s overalls. [*After a series of unexplained disappearances attributed to the job of caretaking Wingates' Rest Cemetery, the local civic hiring commission had begun hiring private security agents seeking a more restful vocational experience that was rich in gardening.]

He dropped his shovel and grabbed Cabal's wrist- directing the blade away from himself as he fell upon the suspected grave-robber.

"God only 'elp ye now!" he snarled, bearing the weight of his substantial torso down with his forearm across Cabal's neck.  "I'll send yeh t' Hell!"

Cabal’s head hit the stone hard.  Stars crossed his vision, clearing as he regained his senses.

He lay squashed under the blood-maddened greenkeeper. His face suffused with blood as he groped for the knife and tried to strike out or twist free.  He fought on, but his concerns were serious and growing; the odds had always been good that something of this kind would happen, and this lummox of a landscaper seemed happy to lean on his neck for the rest of the evening.  He was lightheaded.  His eyes searched his field of vision.  Could he see her, now?

Like a shadow given form (as well as lots of teeth and very sharp talons), Laurelai's leather-clad form hit the homicidal greenskeeper with all the force of a very small steam engine.

The brute’s cry came with the force of breath pushed from his lungs- the switchblade burying itself in Laurelai’s side as it was nearly wrenched from Cabal's hand.

Laurelai screamed- or roared- like a large cat or bird as the struggle continued: brute size and strength pitted against feral force and speed.

The greenskeeper pinned Laurelai beneath his weight- his face, chest and biceps bearing deep scratches beneath shredded denim and wool as he sought to strangle the llamia. With a broad palm bearing down on her neck, the shovel's broken handle was in his hand- the jagged end brought to bear against her chest--

"Fuckin' Nosferatu!" The greenskeeper spat.

A gleaming city boot struck the gardener’s fist, and he yelled and dropped the impromptu stake.  The rain plastered Cabal’s hair to his head like a gilt helmet, and rivulets of water and blood ran down his face.  He bared his teeth as he yanked the man’s head back and brought the knife down to his throat.  

But Cabal was unsteady, and his enemy declined to stay in place for a throat-slitting.  The man rolled away, and Cabal’s fingers slipped.  It freed Laurelai, at least, who lay unmoving after her throttling.

The hulking guardian didn’t bother to rise.  He kicked Cabal behind the knees, and he fell. He saw a flash of light as he cracked his head on the flagstones again.  There was a hot pain in his hand, maybe the knife.

He tried to pull himself to his feet, but he was dizzy and sick.  Laurelai had roused herself to aid him, he realised fuzzily.  He hadn’t called for help, because it hadn’t occurred to him that there was anyone to call.  A bad decision for her.  A burly shadow blotted out the stars above and the darkness rushed in.

Though Cabal was not conscious of it, Laurelai burned the last of her precious blood in defense of his life. Like an acrobat, she sprung up in a roll-turned-somersault and wrapped herself around the greenskeeper-

 ---her fangs burying irreparably in his jugular vein.

The greenskeeper went down like a sack of meat under Laurelai, his last moments spent kicking helplessly beside the man he had meant to kill. Eventually, his thrashing subsided; boots leaving furrows in the soil like a macabre snow-angel. She rose when he stopped twitching, and wiped her mouth on the back of her forearm.

"Oh, cherè," Laurelai's tone was soft as she moved to Cabal's side. He was wounded, unconscious, and she knew little about the needs of humans. She turned his head gently, her hand at his cheek as she spoke his name. He did not wake, and her concern deepened.

Gathering Cabal's lanky, limp figure into her arms, Laurelai carried him back to the safety of her nest-bed.

Once inside the chapel, Laurelai laid the injured necromancer down in the soft folds of her nest. He was soaked to the skin, and although he did not stir as she arranged his limbs, he was shivering. She frowned, realizing that he was cold- and that her bed would also soon be just as damp as his suit.

Halfway through stripping Cabal of his sodden jacket, waistcoat and trousers, Laurelai realized that his skin was not warming. She left him to light a small fire in the wood stove and hang his clothing to dry. Then she went outside to dispose of the greenkeeper’s corpse and collect Cabal’s effects.

When she returned, Laurelai’s own leather clothing was hung alongside Cabal’s suit in favor of a cotton t-shirt that was several sizes too large. The chapel had warmed nicely with the help of the stove, and Laurelai covered Cabal with one of the swaths of velvet that served as her bedding. He seemed to be resting more comfortably; his colour returning.

It was then that she noticed that he was still bleeding not only from a cut at his temple, but from a deep gash in the heel of his palm. These she kissed- tenderly sealing the wounds with the tip of her tongue and the clotting agents in her saliva.

It was tempting to bite and truly taste him, but she could not bring herself to hurt him even in her weakened state: the stab wound in her side unable to heal without blood. She wrapped his hand in a length of silk torn from the dress he had given her and cleaned the blood from his skin.

As dawn drew closer, Laurelai curled up beneath the blankets beside Cabal, her small white hand clasping over his uninjured digits. Even in her drowsy state, she worried for her friend.

His mind toiled towards consciousness like an ant ascending an anthill.  The ant’s footing was unsure.  Sometimes it slid backwards.  Sometimes all went black for a while, and it found it had been toddling off in the wrong direction in the interval.  The ascent seemed like a lot of fuss.  Blackness was relaxing.

Fitfully, he became aware of causes for concern. He was comfortable, but he had an unplaceable feeling he hadn’t fallen asleep at home.  Something hurt.  There was a faint surprise at being alive at all, which, when identified, brought him to full wakefulness.

He slitted an eye open, and he flinched.  Ouch.  Reports rushed in from his body; Cabal knew concussions better than hangovers, so he immediately identified the source of the headache, light sensitivity, and faint nausea.  

He opened both eyes.  He was in a lanterned and screened area he recognized as Laurel’s nest. Late afternoon light glowed from the obstructed windows, though no direct ray shot through to her nest.

Belatedly, he realised that he was not alone; Laurelai curled next to him, her forehead pressed against his shoulder.  Her hair was stuck to her face, and she seemed naturally asleep.  Her skin was warmed from being so close to him, and she breathed softly.  Their joined hands lay on his stomach.  His bare stomach, he noticed, perturbed. Where were his clothes?  His thoughts were fuzzy, but this seemed important.

He had been well-cared for.  His other hand was bandaged with a length of grimy dress silk; he brought it gingerly up to his brow - yes, a bandage there, too.  He touched his neck.  The headache throbbed, and the wounds ached, but he could swear she had not fed from him.   He was hungry and thirsty and woozy, and his thought processes had the clarity and precision of a sack of old boots, but he was alive, thanks to Mlle. Laurelai.

He must set himself in order.  Too much had happened last night, and he wanted to think it through while fully dressed and sitting at a table with a notebook.  He stirred, releasing her hand.  How had that happened?

Although the sun still held sway over Laurelai's circadian rhythm, she stirred at Cabal's movement. She shifted her thigh from against his hip and stretched- rolling onto her back with a groggy murmur.

Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and he was warm and- awake.

<"Do not.. fear.."> Laurelai murmured, blinking at her guest. <".. safe..">

She dozed again, her face turned towards him in the gloom.

“Merci, Mademoiselle.”  A llamia’s bed was a strange place to find safety, but she had been true to her word.  ”Dormez bien.”  

Grateful as he was to the bed’s owner, Cabal was relieved to extract himself from thee swathes of velvet and heaps of cushions. He felt a bit of a fool and really very nude, despite the shorts she had left him.  He stood barefoot on the stone floor.

A short time later, he sat at her folding table, fully dressed.  The wool of his suit was dampish, but he wore it anyway, and the linen had dried at the stove.  Sparks of sunlight illuminated the trove around him and glittered from the hanging objects as they stirred in the air currents.  

He had checked his wounds and found they were clean and closed.  The llamia was an effective nurse as well as protector.  What had she used?  His Gladstone bag was here, unopened, so it hadn’t been his first aid supplies.  He smiled faintly as he remembered the ferocious spring that had plucked the burly assassin off him like a jungle cat taking a baby monkey.  He ate the luncheon he had packed, burning the wrappers in the stove.  

Now.  It must be done, and it was better to do it before she awoke.  He had two hours, maybe.  His lips bloodless, his head spinning and sick, Cabal set about recording every detail of last night’s possession while the details were fresh.

"I did not expect you to still be here."

Laurelai spoke from the top of the chancel, having just emerged for the evening. She looked tired and held her side protectively with one arm- the other supporting her against the screen. Her tone held no hint of ire, but rather concern as she limped to the table in her night shirt. "Are you hurt?"

“Mademoiselle!  You are injured.”  The words were concerned: the tone bordered on the accusing.  “You should have hunted last night.  What were you thinking?” Cabal half-rose from the table and sat down again, self-conscious.

"Oui, I fought." Laurelai was not used to anyone being concerned about her health, and she paused in surprise. Then she smiled ever so slightly: one corner of her mouth softening as she regarded him.  "There was no time. You nearly died, cheré." Laurelai sat down in the other chair, favoring her injured side. "I am glad you did not."

It made him uncomfortable that Laurelai had tended to him while she was more severely injured.  “But surely you need blood to heal.  Are you capable of hunting?  There are things I wish to tell you, but we can make arrangements for your needs first.” Cabal knew exactly what kind of assistance he was offering with that ‘we.’  “I owe you…”  my life was literally true, but he could not support the melodrama, “…a great deal.”

Laurelai did not know how to handle Cabal's concern for her well-being. She had not considered her actions in caring for him as something of value -other than in the obvious benefit of continued living. She looked at him curiously, seeming to search for an answer. She settled upon answering his question.

"You do not owe me anything. You saved my life." She remembered how he had looked when he had thwarted the would-be vampire hunter: the raw anger in Cabal's eyes in her defense.

"....I do not think I should go out. I am weak, and my pain.." Laurelai was not complaining as she lifted the cotton shirt she wore to expose her left flank, though she had reason. Beneath the curve of her bosom, a deep stab wound bled sluggishly at the center of a deep purple bruise that hinted at worse internal damage. The switchblade had penetrated her ribs, punctured her lung, and then had been messily torn free, and the wound was ragged and deep. Her breaths were shallow, each causing pain.

Cabal glared.  “You should have a bandage on that.  Why did you not see to it?  What did you use on my injuries?  I have something in my bag.  Is that wound sucking?”

He pulled out his first aid kit.  The thug with the poor taxonomic skills had been trying to kill him, not Laurelai.  “You cannot discuss last night’s possession while you are in this state, and we must.” He frowned as he sorted through the kit’s contents, trying to determine what might be of use.  “You are not equal to defending yourself.”  He considered solutions.  “I could bring you blood.  I could stay with you to guard you, if you will be able to hunt tomorrow. I could….”  He could offer her his own blood.  Horst had done it, once.  But Horst was Horst.  “You cannot just sit there leaking.”

"The sun was rising, and you...?" Laurelai wasn't sure how she had gotten herself into trouble, and her rosebud lips downturned as lavender hues widened in alarm. Why was he so upset? She watched in silent confusion as he rifled through his bag, an expression of simple awe replacing the pout. Slowly, Laurelai realised that Cabal cared about her.

"You would give me blood?" Agog, she lowered the hem of her nightshirt. Her wounds would heal in time; in a matter of days she would be ravenous but able to hunt. And yet Cabal offered to care for her in her own nest!  "But... I am taking care of you?"

“And you have done it very well.”  He should have noticed that ass with the shovel, even in the storm.  His judgement had been affected.“We have work together.  You have valuable talents and skills.”  His eyes were cool but not unkind.  “It is in my interests for you to be alive and well.  Wash those wounds out with whatever you used on my hand and head; it seems excellent.  We will consider your diet later.”

"Wash my wounds with...?" Laurelai was so overwhelmed by the necromancer's sentiment that it took her a moment to realise his misconception. She laughed despite the pain it caused her; lavender hues glittering softly behind raven lashes. He was so funny!

"I am not able, cherè." she watched him unpack the strange boxes, smiling pleasantly. "I stopped your bleeding ...how is the phrase? I kissed it better."

Then she leaned over and kissed Cabal's cheek, purring happily. "No one will ever get that close again."

“What?”  Cabal tried to hide how aghast he was.  “That close to…?”  He cut himself off.  Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.

Laurelai was oblivious to Cabal's horror, merely smiling and nodding and humming her agreement. He had turned quite pink, and she smoothed the unruly hair at his temple as she considered kissing him again. His lips were inviting.

“Well.”  His face felt warm.  “Perhaps you could swab the area by applying your saliva to a pad.”  He brandished a sterile square at the llamia, who was still very close.  “Either that, or clean water.”  There must be a coagulant in her saliva, maybe something to combat infection.  It would be instructive to compare it to Horst’s saliva in the lab.

"Oui, I kissed. Is that not how you..?"

Laurelai blinked at the white square and sat back, accepting it with mild confusion.

"You are very strange to me sometimes, cherè. I do not have trouble with such things as illness. I only need blood." she held up the gauze, looking at it suspiciously. "What is this for?"

“Nothing, if you cannot become ill.  Fine.  Fine.” One minute they were having a perfectly reasonable conversation, and then she was petting him like a lap dog again. He found an excuse to go to the other side of the table.  “Is there any point to a bandage?  In a human, it would slow the loss of blood while the body heals itself.”

Laurelai belatedly remembered that Cabal did not like to be touched. She nodded, listening but curious about his first aid supplies.

"Oui, it does that. My healing is very slow without blood. I sleep a long time, because of this pain." she frowned slightly. "If I am able, I go to the town and.."

Laurelai held her hands palm-up in an illustrative shrug.

"...you know how it goes."

“The bold outlines, yes.  Do your victims survive?”

Laurelai hesitated, looking away.

"If I choose," she said carefully, having been reflecting much on this.  Laurelai realised that she no longer took pleasure in killing now that she had befriended a human. "I do not think I have to kill. I could let them go."

That wasn’t a ringing safety endorsement, but it was good to know.  The local hospital might be a better plan; they would have plasma, and he knew the layout well enough to get in and out during the night shift without a fuss. His head throbbed.  It sounded like a great deal of work, but it sounded like less work than carrying someone back to Laurelai.

“I will bandage you.  It is difficult to do to one’s self.  Your shirt.”  He was frowning as he unwrapped the roll of bandage.

"Oh, oui," Laurelai recovered from her reverie and stood, lifting the dark cotton over her head and off completely.

She wore black knickers beneath but no brassiere, her pale back bearing a latticework of faint, silvery scars.

"Do you prefer I sit or stand?"

“It doesn’t matter.”  She smelled like roses, even within this chapel stuffed with roses set in a rose garden.  Cabal felt the irritation of being physically close to someone creep along his limbs, but he ignored it.  Bandage. And… scars.  And fine, yes, her breasts, which were right there, and there’s that half-succubine heritage for you.  And where is Berenice, right now?  Is she here?  He overlapped the bandage, wove in the end.

Laurelai held still, her arms raised as Cabal wrapped her ribs in gauze. Unable to blush, she found something interesting to look at in the middle distance and tried not to think about how it had felt to sleep beside someone.

At least none of the ghosts were present.

Laurelai winced as the bandage was secured, but then looked down at the binding.

"Merci beaucoup."

“Je vous en prie.”  Where had she got those scars?  They had been done at the same time, or at least with the same implement. Had they been from her abuse at the hands of her husband?   “I will be back in a few hours.”  He hesitated. “Are you armed?”

Laurelai kept her back to Cabal and pulled the oversized shirt over her head. There was a hitch in her movements that betrayed the pain she tried to hide, but she still smiled.

"But I am a weapon, mon ami," Laurelai offered Cabal her hand for examination. Oval nails of lengths that at one time had been simply manicured had been transfigured by her change: now glass-like and sharp as obsidian.  "Will you be alright alone?"

“I am not so slow and stupid that obtaining blood from a provincial hospital is a challenge.”  He tugged a strap closed on the Gladstone.

"I would never suggest such a thing about you."

“The blood will be stored cold, though it was taken from a living person.  Can you manage?”

Laurelai did not know that humans had such practices, and she gave Cabal an odd look. She very nearly asked him why, but decided it was not the time for questions. "I do not know, but I am not unwilling to try cold blood. I will rest while you are gone."

Cabal returned with three vacuum flasks of blood, several plain-wrapped rolls of bandage from the hospital supplies, a meat pie, tea, a package of iced biscuits, and a few other essentials.  He had resigned himself to spending the day here. He was no good for work in his lab, with the concussion at its worst and the week’s fatigue still thick on him. He had learned from experience that the demands of a minor head trauma would not be cheated.

She wasn’t in the central area of the chapel when he entered.  “Mademoiselle?”

The chapel had remained warm with the help of the little stove, and Laurelai had left candles burning.

She had not intended to sleep, but she had become lost in her imagination while amusing herself with a book of botanical illustrations. Dark circles were evident beneath her eyes, her slumbering breaths shallow and laboured.

“Mademoiselle?  Are you here?”  His movements were sluggish as he took off his hat and coat and hung them on a pair of broken processional crosses in the narthex.  He thought he might have reopened the cut on his hand when he left over the hospital wall.  “Have you anything in which to make tea?”

"Why are you so formal, mon ami?" Laurelai's quiet inquiry preceded her appearance, and she leaned against the screen to gather strength for the stairs. She brought her book with her: the object an excuse to cradle her wounded ribs.

"You may call me Laurelai." She sat down, breathless. "....you are bleeding. Why?"

“It will heal.  I am formal because I prefer it.  Try this.”  He opened one of the shining flasks from the hospital and held it out to her.  “Unless, I suppose, you would prefer a glass?  Are you capable of eating conventional food?” He watched her move down the stairs, her knuckles white on the book she held.

Laurelai didn't know where to begin addressing the flask of blood, accepting the offered packet with both hands.

"I cannot eat the things you do. Human foods smell foul to me." she peered down at the anti-coagulant treated fluid within, and then up at Cabal. "I have never used a glass. I pour?"

“Essentially.  In very small quantities.”  Perhaps he should have brought a feeding-bottle.

Laurelai nodded and very carefully brought the flask to her lips. She sipped, soon getting the hang of the action as her thirst demanded more.

She did not stop until it was empty, grimacing as she lowered the deflated vessel.

"That was.... unpleasant. Cold."

“A pity.  But let us hope it does you some good.  Better to let the others wait, for now.  Do you have anything in which I could heat water for tea?”  He was thirsty, though not hungry, and he wanted to sit and recover.

Laurelai did not feel improved by the transfusion. She felt queasy; the chemically-preserved blood lacking the vital essence she required. She glanced at Cabal as she stood, trying to fight the first wave of nausea.

"...I have many kettles," she answered- then clapping a hand to her mouth as she sprinted outside.

Collapsing on all fours amid the rosebushes, Laurelai was sick for several minutes.

Cabal watched from a distance, arms crossed. He was not unsympathetic, but neither did he want blood vomit on his boots.  When it subsided, he circled carefully towards her.  “We have learned something, at least. Are you able to rise?”

Laurelai sat on the grass away from the mess as the nausea subsided, exhausted.  She glanced up at him as she recovered what little remained of her dignity.

"That was terrible," Laurelai agreed, pulling herself up with the help of a tombstone. She leaned against it, sheer stubborn willpower keeping her upright. "I do not want any more of that. I must go to find someone. I must dress."

Cabal suppressed his curiosity about her reaction; perhaps he could get Horst to act as laboratory animal some day?  He accompanied her back into the chapel.  “Is it dangerous for you to hunt in this condition?” Laurelai was grey-pale in the candlelight.  “Your experience must tell in your favour.”

Laurelai was silent for a time, her expression either thoughtful or begrudging. She bolted the chapel doors behind them, looking to be sure that Cabal observed the operation of the lock.

"It could be, if I am not careful. I would not be able to defend myself." Laurelai admitted, not glancing at her companion. She did not want pity, remaining stoic as she sought her leather clothes.

"I will feel better when I drink."

Never mind the kettle.  Cabal repacked the Gladstone bag while Laurelai was behind the screen. HIs gun went in one pocket, his knife in another.

When she emerged, he stood by the table with his bag and his hat.  “It seems you have a chaperone, mademoiselle.  Let us be quick.”

Initially surprised, Laurelai accepted Cabal's offer of escort- under the agreement that he would not interfere unless she was threatened.

After that, it was a simple matter of a short but slow walk to the nearby village, where Laurelai sought the darkest side streets and dangerous back alleys. She did not need to caution her companion, which was a relief- he had his enormous revolver.

She lured several victims, all men who fell prey to her mesmeric allure. Practiced in her method, they did not fight or even struggle- hazy eyes and blissful expressions turned skyward as Laurelai fed.

She was acutely aware of her observer. For some reason which nagged at her psyche, Laurelai practiced (heretofore unknown) discretion and allowed her victims to stumble away in their afterglow- lives intact.

[tigereye771]

New Year, New Beginnings (Part 6/?)

My apologizes for taking so long, but work has literally been a killer. It’s not quite eased up yet, but will hopefully do so soon. Trust me, I’m counting the days until July 1 where I think there should be a bit of breathing room. All this is a long-winded explanation for the delay in updating this. Hopefully you will enjoy it.

Title: New Year, New Beginnings (Modern AU)

Part: 6/?

Pairing: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark

Previous parts: [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5]

His dream began as it always did: in the snow.

He was running towards the helicopter;  Edd to his right, Tormund running ahead of them, the soldiers of the White Walker terrorist group chasing them, firing in their direction.  Pyp, Grenn and Satin had already gone down.  His six-man team cut in half in what felt like a blink of an eye.  If none of them make it out today, it would still be a victory.  The Night King was dead.  Jon himself had killed him with a bullet to his head and one to where his heart should be if such a vicious being had a heart.  They all knew that the odds were high that none of them would survive the mission, but with the helicopter just a few hundred yards away, Jon had started to hope.

Then Edd had cried out and stumbled, causing Jon to stutter to a stop and turn back to his fallen comrade, despite the other man telling him to run.

“Get your ass out of here, Commander!” Edd had bellowed even as he had started to fire behind them, momentarily making the enemy pause in their efforts.

“I don’t leave men behind!” Jon shouted back as he moved to help his second-in-command.  With a glance he could see Edd had taken a bullet to his ankle and moved to help him up when Tormund was suddenly beside them.

Without a word, the larger man threw Edd over his shoulder as Jon turned and began to lay cover fire, allowing the others to run to the waiting helicopter as he slowly backed up towards it.

Then it happened.  His gun jammed and in that brief moment as he worked to fix it, he felt the first bullet hit him in his chest.  The force of it took his breath away, but the armor vest had caught it and while it would leave a nasty bruise, he wasn’t hurt. But he wasn’t so lucky with the second bullet which caught him in his left thigh and made him buckle.  Then some bright fellow thought to load his weapon with armor piercing bullets and the next series pierced his protective armor like a hot knife through butter.

The first bullet that entered his chest didn’t hurt. Adrenaline and surprise was an anesthetic to it, but the second, third and fourth bullets sliced through him, robbing him of his breath with a swath of pain.  Jon fell backwards and he felt the snow cushion his fall.  He stared up into the gray sky, watching the lazy fall of snowflakes that dotted his eyelashes.  He could feel his warm blood slipping out of his wounds and mingle with the dirty snow beneath him.

Memories filled his mind at that moment.  He and Robb swimming in the hot springs at Winterfell; Bran staring down at him from yet another tall tree he had climbed; Arya swinging a stick like a sword as she challenged him to a duel; little Rickon tugging at his hand, Ned and Cat smiling at their brood and him from the steps of Winterfell; and Sansa sitting on a bench, singing softly to herself as she brushed her hair.

In his previous dreams he dies at this point and Jon would wake up in a cold sweat, clutching at his chest and gasping for air.  But that did not happen this time.  The pain he felt from his wounds were gone and suddenly, he was staring up into a blue sky occasionally blocked out by waving red leaves of a Weirwood tree.  He was lying on soft, green grass.

“Jon!  Come on, Jon!”

He couldn’t make out whose voice that was.  He knew it was familiar, but he couldn’t tell if it was male or female.  Jon pushed himself up into a sitting position and touched his chest.  He was no longer in his fatigues and armor, his wounds were gone.  He was in a simple t-shirt and jeans, his feet in soft, leather boots.

“Come on, Jon!”

That voice again.  He rose to his feet and they somehow knew where to go and he was slipping through a forest that he knew: the Godswoods of Winterfell.  A shadowy figure was ahead of him, slipping through the trees, leading him somewhere.

Even as he ran effortlessly after the figure, Jon looked up and around him.  The sky peaked through the rustling leaves of the trees. Dappled sunlight flickered on his skin as he moved closer and closer to the shadowy figure leading him somewhere. The shadows of the leaves painted soft tattoos of ever shifting patterns over his skin.

As he drew closer, he saw a flash of copper and milky skin and he knew, even before she turned her head back to look at him, laughing merrily, her blue eyes sparkling.

“It’s time you come home, Jon Snow,” he heard her say.

“Sansa,” Jon whispered as his hand reached out to touch her.

“Come home, Jon,” he heard her say to him in the softest, gentlest voice.

He could feel himself reaching out to her, his finger tips about to brush against the silk of her hair.

“Jon?  Jon, wake up.  It’s time to get up.”

Jon felt a hand gently shake up and he peered up in the dim light into Sansa’s face.  For a moment, he was disoriented, nor remembering where he was before it came back to him.  He was in Sansa’s bed.  His face colored at the thought, inexplicably embarrassed that he had thought that sentence. He saw her peer curiously at him, but she only said, “I left some clean towels in the bathroom if you want to shower before you drop me off at work.  We have about a half hour before we have to go.”

Right, he was giving Sansa a ride to work and while he spent the night in her bed, he did not spend it with her.  Jon nodded, pushing himself up and realized Sansa had turned on a small lamp in the corner that cast the room in a soft light.  The clock on her night stand said 4:15 am.  She had said she needed to be at the café at 5 am.  Jon could see she had already showered and was in her robe with a towel wrapped around her hair.  He realized then that she likely needed him out of the room to change and he blushed again, realizing that underneath the thick, light blue terry cloth robe, she was likely naked.

“I won’t be long,” Jon muttered as he slid out of her warm bed to pad his way to the bathroom.  He switched on the light to the small bathroom that was still slightly steamy from Sansa’s shower.  He saw a set of snowy white towels on the counter with a brand new toothbrush still in its plastic wrapper on top of it.  The sight of it made him smile slightly.  Any child of Catelyn Stark would be prepared for any unexpected guests.  

Jon glanced in the mirror above the sink and examined his face closely.  Mornings he usually found a bleary-eyed, tired man staring back at him, having gotten less sleep than he really needed.  The dreams often allowed him only four or five hours of sleep on a good night.  Jon had refused to take the sleeping pills prescribed to him, not liking how sluggish and slow they made him feel the next day. However, while the amount of sleep he’d gotten wasn’t more than usual, for some reason he looked more rested than he had in long time.  Maybe it was the dinner he had last night.  Despite the horrible things he heard the Starks go through, he found he couldn’t stop eating the delicious meal he had been served.  Or maybe for once, he was someplace where no one had wanted or expected anything from him.  Whatever it was, the face Jon found staring back at him seemed less tired, more relaxed.

Fifteen minutes later he was walking into the kitchen, his hair pulled back from his freshly scrubbed face.  Sansa turned from the coffeemaker at his approach and handed him a blue travel tumbler. “I hope you don’t mind not having breakfast until we get to the café?  I don’t normally eat breakfast until the morning prep work is done. But I’ve got coffee if you want it.”

Jon took the tumbler from her hands and flipped the lip open.  “No problem.  I’m still a bit full from dinner last night, but coffee will never be turned down.” He took a sip and closed his eyes, savoring the taste of it.  It was the same coffee from the café which was the best he had ever tasted, even better than the expensive brand used in the Targaryen household.  It was also prepared perfectly for him, black with one sugar.  “How did you know how I took my coffee?” he asked curiously.

Sansa was finishing filling her own tumbler and then resetting the coffeemaker to brew another pot for Arya and Bran.  “Hmmm? Oh, noticed it yesterday at the café. You pick up those things quickly in waitressing.”  She finished what she was doing and looked up at him.  Her brow furrowed.  “Jon?”

He hadn’t realized it, but his face had fallen into a sad expression, remembering why Sansa was in a position to having to waitress, to get up so early and work so hard just to keep what was left of her family together.  But Jon also knew that pity was the last thing Sansa probably wanted so he quickly wiped the look from his face and gave her a small smile.  “Just zoned out a moment.  Caffeine hasn’t quite hit the brain yet.”  He took another sip of the delicious coffee.

Sansa nodded and then a few minutes later they were in Jon’s car, driving down the darkened streets towards the Hghgarden Café.  A few miles into their trip, they passed by Sansa’s broken down Jeep, the sight of it causing her to let out a small sigh.

“What are you going to do about that?” Jon asked with a nod towards the forlorn vehicle.

Sansa sighed again. “Hopefully, it’s something Arya can fix.  If not…” Her voice trailed off and Jon could see her worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

He knew money was an issue and a new car, even a used one, would be a significant purchase.  He was about to offer his help but remembered Arya’s reaction to his attempts at doing so and knew it likely would be even less welcomed by Sansa.  He would have to get creative if he wanted to provide any type of assistance to the Starks.

“If not?” he prompted.

Sansa sighed more loudly this time.  “We really need two cars, so we’ll just have to buy another one if we can’t salvage my jeep. I don’t only need it for work, but we need a vehicle for Bran to get around in.  Arya’s truck is too hard for him to get in and out of and the disabled transit service offered by the city only does so much.”

“I’m happy to go car shopping with you, if it comes to that,” Jon replied nonchalantly.  “I’m pretty knowledgeable about cars.”

Sansa threw him an amused look.  “I’m not sure you know more than Arya.”

Jon chuckled. “True.  I can’t believe she’s working in a garage.”

Sansa let out a soft laugh that made Jon grin.  It was good to hear her laugh.  “I know, but then again, it seems so…Arya too.  She’s happy about it though and Sandor, you met him yesterday in the café, is actually a pretty good boss.  And her friend Gendry works there too.”

“So, this Gendry, any…romance there?”

Sansa laughed again. “I think he hopes there will be, but Arya is allegedly oblivious so far.  I say allegedly because I think she wants to be more than friends, but hasn’t made that step yet.”

“Why not?” Jon asked.

The soft, amused look left Sansa’s face and she turned her head to look out the window, but Jon could see her face in the reflection on the glass.  She looked so tired and sad.  “Maybe because she’s seen some bad examples of relationships and it’s made her gun shy.”

Jon decided not to push her for answers and the rest of the ride was made in silence until they got to Flea Bottom and Sansa directed him through a twist of streets that led to the back of the café which was much less picturesque than the cobbled street version in the front.  He parked in the small lot in the back and then followed Sansa as she unlocked the back door and went into the kitchen of the café.  

In movements that spoke of routine, one hand went out to flick on the lights and she hurried forward towards a panel that was near a small desk that was nestled in an alcove by a pantry closet.  Jon watched as she punched in a code to turn off the alarm before it was triggered and she went to hang up her jacket flipping on various lights and equipment as she moved.

Jon stood off to the side, watching her practiced movements, moving with a dancer’s grace.  In the early morning light that came filtering in from high, small rectangular windows, the kitchen looked much different than it did yesterday.  It seemed cold and unfriendly, almost sterile with the gleaming equipment and prep table, the shiny hardware, and the pristineness of the floors and counters. He could have excused himself and simply gone home now that Sansa was here, but Jon found himself reluctant to leave her just yet.  His mind cited concerns about her safety, a woman alone in the early morning hours at a business. But Sansa had been doing this for years and he had watched her lock the heavy door behind her when they entered.  No, Jon simply didn’t want to leave her yet and return to either an empty bed or a passed out Ygritte.

She sent him a curious look. “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t give you breakfast until I’ve got the prep work underway?”

Jon held up his half full tumbler.  “Got coffee. I’m fine.”

She gave him a small smile and then simply ignored him as she concentrated on what needed to be done. Jon settled himself down in the chair he sat in yesterday for lunch and watched Sansa busy herself with making bread, cookies, pies and other things that Jon knew would eventually turn into delicious things to eat.

When they had entered the kitchen, it seemed cold and almost sterile, but it gradually warmed up with the heating ovens and the enticing smells that came from the food Sansa began to prepare.  The empty tables and counters began to fill with assorted foodstuff as Sansa worked and she, herself, seemed to breathe life into the room with her copper hair and vivid blue eyes.  The room began to feel almost cozy, like a kitchen in a home but just larger.  “What are you making?” he asked after almost an hour of companionable silence.

“Individual breakfast quiches,” Sansa replied as she stood at a stove, frying bacon.  “They’re a pretty good seller.”

Jon sniffed the air appreciatively.  “Bacon in anything is guaranteed to sell,” he agreed.

Sansa sent him an amused look.  She drained the bacon she was frying and moved over to some that she had fried earlier and left to drain.  She took those pieces and crumbled them into a mixture that was then poured into small pie shells.  In one she added an extra amount of bacon and a handful more of cheese before she slid the prepared shells into the oven and set the time for thirty minutes.

“I remembered how much you liked bacon,” Sansa said to him with a nod towards the oven.  “That one with the extra bacon and cheese is your breakfast.”

While he appreciated the thought, Jon looked skeptically at her.  “Quiche?”

Sansa let out a low laugh. “Yes, even big military heroes can have quiche for breakfast.  Try it and if you don’t like it, I’ll make you plain old eggs and bacon instead.”

The cook at Rhaegar’s mansion would prepare anything Jon asked for, but he didn’t feel the same sense of pleased warmth that spread in his chest knowing that Sansa was making something special for him based upon her memories she had of his love for bacon. The cook had to make what Jon wanted because that was his job. Sansa did it because she wanted to. It made all the difference to Jon.

He refilled his tumbler with more coffee and asked Sansa about it.  

“It’s from a small farmer in Dorne.  Margery and I must have tasted thirty different brands before we settled on this independent vendor.  We’ve found anyone who’s had this coffee really can’t drink any other brand,” Sansa explained as she hand kneaded bread.  

“I’d love to buy some for Rhaegar’s,” Jon said before he savored another sip.  He saw Sansa pause and stare at him contemplatively, the first time she’s really stopped since they got to the café.  “What?”  He touched his beard.  “Do I have something on my face?”

“No…” Sansa paused and began to knead the bread again, a small frown on her face.  She shook her head.  “It’s none of my business.”

Jon didn’t know what she wanted to say, but sensed this was an opportunity to maybe get more out of Sansa other than polite conversation about coffee.  A former commanding officer of his who had helped prep him for his mission had once said that when you’re undercover, you had to give a little of yourself to get someone to trust you.  If he wanted to help Sansa and the other Starks, he was going to have to earn their trust.

“No, go ahead.  I don’t mind.”

He watched as Sansa hesitated a moment before she said quietly, “You called it ‘Rhaegar’s’, not ‘home.’”

Jon blinked at her.   So he did.  Jon rubbed the back of his neck.  “Huh, yeah, I guess I did.”  He took another sip of coffee.  “I guess it’s because it doesn’t feel like a home to me.  Just a place I’m living in for now.”  He watched as Sansa began to hand shape loaves.  “I really hadn’t realized I felt like that.”

“It must be difficult, adjusting to now having a father when he’s been gone from your life,” Sansa murmured. “How are you doing? I mean, there have been so many changes for you and, well, we all read that you were pretty badly injured during your mission.”

The scars still marked his body and though they were healed, it was almost as though Jon could feel the hot sear of the bullets still.  He shrugged non-committedly.  “Like you said, it’s been an adjustment.”  He blew out a loud breath.  “It is weird. All my life the only father I felt I had was yours, Ned.”  He was relieved when he didn’t see Sansa flinch or look sad.  “But now I not only have my father, but he’s Rhaegar Targaryen, the richest man in Westeros, making me-“

“Second richest?” Sansa gently teased with a saucy grin as she turned away from the rising drawer where she had slipped in the prepared loaves of bread.  The smile dropped as she said softly.  “You know, you don’t have to change who you are because of them.”

“What?” Jon gave her a startled look.  “What do you mean?”

Sansa bit her lower lip and his eyes automatically were drawn to it.  Jon felt a small flicker in his gut, but ignored it, more interested in her comment.

“I also read that you’re going to be taking over some of the duties at Targaryen Industries.  It’s just that well, I’ve just never seen you doing a desk job, you know.  I’m sure that Rhaegar probably has expectations of you and well, I’m just saying you don’t have to do what he wants.  Just do what you want to do.  You shouldn’t have to compromise who you are and what you want just because the Targaryens expect you to.”  Sansa was flushing a bright red at the end of her stumbling speech and she began to fiddle with the edge of her apron.

Jon stared at Sansa with wide eyes. Ever since Rhaegar came into his life everyone, even Edd and Tormund, have said how lucky he was having a rich father who wanted to give him everything, making him feel like there was something wrong with him or he was simply ungrateful for having doubts and even resentments over having his life taken over from him.  But here was someone else telling him he wasn’t crazy or foolish to feel what he was feeling. That not wanting the burden of being Jon Targaryen wasn’t worth losing who Jon Snow was.

“No one has ever said something like that to me,” Jon croaked.

He didn’t think it was possible, but Sansa turned even redder.  “I’m sorry.  You must think I’m stupid or overstepping myself.  I shouldn’t have butted in-“

“No!” Jon got up from his chair and in three strides was beside her, gently putting a hand over the wrist of one of her hands that was worrying her apron into a balled up knot. He was pleased when she didn’t flinch from him but instead looked into his eyes.  “I just meant that everyone keeps telling me what a lucky bastard,” he snorted out the last word, “I am for having a rich father come into my life and make all my worries go away.”

“But they don’t,” Sansa nodded understandingly.  “It just gives you other types of complications and worries.” Tentatively she reached out to touch his hand that was over her wrist.  “Jon, you don’t have to be what they want, just be you.”  She gave him a small smile.  “The Jon Snow I knew at Winterfell.”

Jon stared into her blue eyes and that small flicker in his gut seemed to spread and grow into something else, a warmth that filled his body that filled the dark void inside of him that he didn’t realize was there.  “I didn’t think you noticed me much when we were at Winterfell,” he murmured.  

“We may not have been close, but even I could see what a nice guy you were.” Sansa withdrew her hands and took a step back, a dark look descending on her face as she turned back to her work table.  “Trust me, I know what a commodity nice guys are. They’re a rare bird these days.”

Her words were like a bucket of ice water on the warmth that had been steadily growing inside of him. Sansa had a story that he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear, but when she was ready to tell him, he would listen.  He didn’t reach out to touch her, instead slipping his hands into his jeans pockets to stop him from that.  Sansa looked at him, grateful he wasn’t trying to force himself into her space.

“Jon Snow is a pretty good guy.  I don’t think he needs to change himself for his father or anyone else.”

Jon Snow gave her a small smile and could only say, “Thank you, Sansa.”

*/*/*/*/*/*

Holding her high heels with one hand and the other against the bannister of the curving staircase to help steady her, Ygritte hurried up the steps to her bedroom, hoping to avoid any servants or more importantly Jon or the Targaryens. Unfortunately for her, as she rounded a corner, Dany was just walking from the other direction and they nearly collided.

The petite blonde raised a judgmental eyebrow at the other woman, taking in her disheveled appearance and clearly the dress she had on the night before.

“Rather a late night, considering it’s six in the morning,” Dany said.  Her eyes latched onto a bruise just visible over the low neckline of Ygritte’s dress.  A small, nasty smile spread over her face. “Had an interesting night?”

Ygritte glanced down at where Dany was looking and swore internally as she tried to tug the dress up to hide the bruise. She tried to bluff her way out of things and drew herself haughtily up.  “Jon can party with the best of them.”

Dany smirked. “Try again. Jon had dinner with the Starks last night and stayed over so he could help one of them out this morning.  You weren’t with Jon, so who gave you that lovely souvenir?”

“None of your business!’ Ygritte snapped.  She pushed past Dany.  “And if you say anything to Jon, you’ll regret it!”  She stomped down the hallway towards her room accompanied by Dany’s laugh.

Later in the shower, Ygritte took an inventory of her body. Besides the bruise above her breast, there were a few marks along her thighs where he had gripped her tightly as he roughly pounded into her when he bent her over the table.  She felt a low throb between her legs as she remembered the sex she had last night.  It had been so long since she and Jon had made love, the atmosphere in the Targaryen mansion doing everything but putting Ygritte in the mood, that when Ramsey Bolton, proprietor of the night club she went to last night, approached her and began to flirt, she had been more than willing, especially considering the amount of alcohol she had consumed.

However, she wasn’t so drunk that when he tried to get too rough she had hit him, flipped him onto his back and snarled, “I like it rough, but don’t think you can mess with me like you can with some stupid college girl.” She had proceeded to rake her nails down his chest hard enough to draw blood and rode his cock hard and fast, making the bastard howl in pleasure, enjoying her rough treatment as much as he enjoyed delivering it. The rest of the night was a blur of rough sex, more alcohol and commands that he not leave marks since she had to go back to Jon. So much for not leaving marks.

Ygritte leaned her forehead against the wet tile of the shower, allowing the water to pour down her body, a part of her hoping it would wash away with the disgust she was feeling for herself. What was she doing? Jon was a sweet guy she thought she had fallen in love with in The Gift, so much so she had forgiven him for lying to her when he revealed he was using her as a cover and believed him when he said he loved her too and wanted her in Kings Landing with him. Maybe they could have been happy if Rhaegar hadn’t come into their lives, but he was here along with his bitch sister Daenerys who looked at Jon in a way no aunt should be looking at her nephew.

And Jon, who was always a bit moody before seemed even worse now. Shouldn’t he be happy? He had her and he had a rich man wanting to give him the world. What did Jon have to complain about?  Why couldn’t he just enjoy the ride?

Ygritte shut off the water and stepped out of shower, wrapping herself in a large, luxurious towel. She swiped at the steam on the mirror and stared at herself.  Without her makeup, she could see the dark circles under her eyes and the sunken in cheeks. Life was always hard in The Gift, but she never looked this tired and worn out, despite the better food and the luxuries she had access to now.

Her hands gripped the edge of the sink and she lowered her head.  Maybe Jon wasn’t the only one unhappy with his life right now.

TBC